marycatelli (marycatelli) wrote,
marycatelli
marycatelli

snow, sky, and spring

How much difference haze can make -- or its absence can.  The sunset barely begun, the sky still blue, and barely differing from the daylight shade, and yet the moon is sharp and clear, half-full, against it.

Clouds about the sunset, striatated, with the colors of gold and peach and pink against them.

New fallen snow, not yet had a chance to fall farther, and so it makes all the trees feathery with white.

It rains after the snow, darkening all the roadside trees with dampness, all the more vivid for the white to contrast with.  The bark turns black, the still clinging leaves turn the deepest shades of copper and bronze, and the tips of the branches a deep scarlet -- and even with the snow on the ground that must be the new buds forming for spring

Sunset is ashes of roses and a subdued gray.  The sundog against the cloud does not manage a full rainbow but a hazy sort of red.

A tree had broken, half way, through the storm, and its top lay parallel to the ground but above it.  A quick glance showed a startling glimpse of white, when all the snow had fallen to the ground -- or the flat of the trunk.

Snowflakes vary from little flecks that you might have to walk up to the window, to be sure they were white and so snow, to great clumps of crystals, like airy if small snowballs.

Pumping gas in the snow -- in the evening -- with the sky turning all velvety dark blue from the clouds, and the snow flying against it, brilliantly white where the lights hit it, and like stars against the dark sky.

The first crocuses of spring, some a pale celestial violet, others a rosy violet.

The birds all flocking in the flight northward -- you can tell because the clamor is all the same note, and the birds all look the same, if seen -- even a couple of strides away, in the thick tangle of bare brown branches, a whole flock of little brown birds can hide their plump and fluffy selves.

How swiftly it changes.  Walking over a bridge where I had heard the migrating birds yesterday, today I heard, from every which way, trills and whistles and twitters of every kind.  Folks have disbursed to their nests.

Early in the dawn, the distant trees bluish against the pale mist, with a row of hills behind it, as bluish, and another row behind that, also blue, also formed like the hills, but cloud.  The rising dawn flushed withe mist with a peach shade, and slowly melted the cloud, so that when the mists were glowing yellow later, there were only the trees and hills.
Tags: nature
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